


A New Normal

by ant5b



Series: Making Up for Lost Time [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Dad Donald is life, Give me Webby and Scrooge interactions or give me death, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: Growing up in the shadow of your hero isn't all it's cracked up to be.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!  
> I'm loving Webby in the new show, and really looking forward to what they do with her character. This fic was partly me speculating what her life must've been like before Donald and the boys turned everything upside down.  
> This chapter's shorter than the rest, but I hope you still enjoy it!

Sometimes Webby woke up in the morning and forget that everything was different now. 

She would get dressed, practice her  _ kata _ , like nothing had changed. She expected a quiet breakfast with her grandmother, Scrooge’s chair empty, its owner long since gone to the office. This would be followed by quiet schooling in the library, reviewing her times tables and the history of the Boer War. Sometimes she’d get lucky and her grandmother would acquiesce to a training session. 

The gym was the first place Webby could shatter the day’s quietude with war cries and nonsense shouts as she pummeled practice dummies with hands and feet. She’d look for her grandmother’s approving nod, bolstered by the knowledge that that she could do this right. 

But training would eventually end and they would have a quiet lunch, followed by freetime, all without ever leaving the mansion grounds. But Scrooge would be home by this time and demanded  _ quiet _ . 

He wouldn’t want a little girl underfoot. 

Webby’s life had been an endless cycle of silence and the same dour walls for as long as she could remember. Sometimes it felt like the halls of the mansion didn’t ring with the echoes of past adventures, of mysteries to be uncovered, that it wasn’t a testament to legends and heroes. Instead it felt more like a tomb, with stale air and darkened, forbidden rooms, a stillness so unnatural that she often felt like an intruder in what should have been her home. 

She would see Scrooge rarely, wandering the halls like a scowling phantom, and in the past wouldn’t hesitate to bombard him with questions and exaltations. But Webby was dismissed and ignored so often that she made it a habit of avoiding Scrooge, ducking into the air vents when he was near. 

And so Webby would wake up in the morning and forget things were different. 

Instead of deathly quiet halls, she woke to Donald,  _ the  _ Donald Duck, half dressed and rushing to rouse the boys because he’d slept in and they were going to be late for school. 

Breakfast was no longer a soft spoken affair, with so many people filling the massive kitchen table that had seemed so ponderous to her before, everyone talking and moving and living. Launchpad would sometimes come in to help make breakfast, mostly because he could eat more than everyone else combined. Dewey would try to steal the syrup from Huey before he’d distributed the ideal amount to his waffles. Louie would be falling asleep at the table, perilously close to falling into his breakfast. And Scrooge — _ Scrooge _ would join them at the table, a mug of nutmeg tea in hand, and he would jab Louie with his cane before he could faceplant into his breakfast. And Scrooge would  _ smile _ , like he never did when it was just her staying at the mansion. 

Webby would laugh and joke and  _ enjoy  _ the abundance of noise,  _ truly  _ she did. But Scrooge would compliment one of the boys, would ask for their opinion, gradually be more and more willing to spend time with them outside of their adventures, and Webby could only wonder at what to might have done wrong to never have received his favor. 

Webby did her best never to let her growing frustration and despair show, not willing to risk her place in the group. She’d never had friends before, not  _ ever _ , and the mere thought of losing Huey, Dewey, and Louie filled her with dread unlike anything she’d felt before. She still dreamt of empty, hollow halls, of a silence so complete that she was rendered mute, and she’d scream and scream to no avail. 

Before everything changed, she would have stayed in bed in the aftermath of her nightmare, picking a random book from her personal library and grabbing her flashlight to read by. But the words on the page would blur and she’d spend the next few hours clicking the flashlight on and off, proving to herself that the utter silence from her dream was not her reality. 

Now, though, when Webby was woken by a nightmare she could go down to the kitchen and nine times out of ten Donald would be there, the consummate insomniac, staring blearily at the back of a cereal box. He’d smile at her tiredly, beckoning for her to take a seat at the kitchen table. Donald wouldn’t pry into why she was awake, fixing mugs of chamomile tea for them to sip on as he told her embarrassing stories about the boys, along with photographic evidence he would give her permission to use as blackmail. But more than anything else Webby appreciated how he knew that she last thing she needed was silence, without her ever needing to say a word.

She had always known that Donald was a great adventurer, but sitting at the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning with the triplet’s embarrassing baby photos, his expression lined with exhaustion but his eyes shining with pride, she knew that he was a great man. 

Webby wondered often about how Donald felt being with Scrooge now.

Her grandmother had told her bits and pieces of what happened to the ill-fated Della Duck, the rest she’d pieced together from archival research of old newspaper clippings. Those she kept hidden in a folder in a box under her bed, knowing better than to leave them in plain sight where the nephews or anyone else might see them. 

She saw the tension that sparked into being whenever they were in the same room, the terse exchanges they would have, lacking any of the familial affection they showed the nephews, and wondered if it had always been like this between them, or if loss rendered their relationship irreparable. 

And Webby, who knew loss but only vaguely, couldn’t imagine what that kind of grief might be like. Her memories of her parents were ephemeral as smoke, her life before living at McDuck Manor less than memory. For so long her life had been silence, wandering the mansion's hallowed halls and in her loneliness reaching out to the larger than life heroes whose triumphs decorated the very same walls she saw every day. 

One was determined to put his past behind him, less the daring adventurer than the doting father, though that made him no less great. 

The other she knew was as clever, as brave, and as skilled as she’d been lead to believe, unparalleled as an explorer and capable of the most daring of feats. Webby trained and studied and practiced to one day be his equal, but at every turn he made it clear that it wasn’t enough. That  _ she _ wasn’t enough. And instead she found her roll filled by Huey, Dewey, and Louie, who excelled even without her training. 

Webby wouldn’t say a word to anyone about her feelings, the self-doubt that steadily picked away at her confidence, how small she felt when she was passed over for one of the nephews. But most distressing was how this hurt she stamped down coalesced and hardened into something sick and burning in her gut, becoming something greater than frustration, greater than just hurt feelings. But this was her new norm, and as long as she had her best friends, she would be fine. Being with them was enough. 

That is, until it wasn’t. 


	2. Making Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge McDouche Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anyone else been binge-watching Darkwing Duck? No? Just me?

They were on their way to the Terciopelo temples of the White City in the Amazon rainforest, a ring of hidden structures deep within Henduras. According to Scrooge, the temples were rumored to harbor a river of liquid silver with magical, life sustaining properties, that had been long since lost to time. 

Only Scrooge, Donald, and Launchpad were allowed to use long, wicked machetes to slash through the thick vegetation that surrounded them on all sides, to the disappointment of Webby and the boys. Back at the trading post, Scrooge would’ve bought machetes for all of them had Donald not exasperatedly intervened. 

As it was, with Scrooge leading the way, they trudged through the densely packed, humid jungle, swatting at insects the size of their heads until the arch of the sun reached its nadir. They made to set up camp in a clearing, setting their supplies down in a circle. 

“We’ll need to get a fire going, before anything else,” Scrooge grunted as he popped the kinks out of his back. 

“I can go, Mr. McDuck,” Webby replied, trying not to sound too eager. 

Scrooge shook his head. “Huey would have the most experience gathering firewood, I’d think. Huey! Hup two!”

Huey was in the process of falling asleep against his rolled up sleeping back, and woke with a start at his name being called. Donald, who had begun to pitch his tent, looked back over his shoulder. 

“Don’t forget a flashlight, Huey, and remember, I’ve gotta be able to see you at all times.”

Huey sighed, “Yes, Uncle Donald.”

Dewey snickered, and Donald jerked a thumb over his shoulder without looking. 

“And take Dewey with you.”

Dewey groaned, but followed his brother with flashlight in hand. Donald stood from where he’d been pitching the tent to watch their progress, his arms crossed as he followed the sweeping beams of their flashlights with furrowed brows. 

Webby retrieved the largest tent from Launchpad, who’d bore the heaviest load with his usual aplomb. Louie followed close behind her, and while she turned her back to unpack the tent he sprawled over the spot she’d chosen to set it up. She turned back around and giggled, playfully shoving him away with her foot. 

As he sputtered and complained about swallowing a bug she unfurled the dome-shaped tent, big enough to fit her and the nephews. She’d inserted all the poles in order for it to stand upright and was about to hammer in the stakes when Huey and Dewey came back with their last armload of wood. Scrooge had already started the fire and Donald and Launchpad set to preparing dinner. 

As she picked up the hammer, Webby was distracted by Louie, who had grabbed a large leaf and begun to tickle the back of Donald’s neck with it. His uncle swatted distractedly at it, until Louie shouted, with incredibly believable panic in his voice, “Uncle Donald, there’s a  _ huge _ spider on you!”

Donald shrieked, leaping to his feet and whacking at the back of his neck with one hand and waving around the spoon he’d been using to stir dinner with the other. Louie was the closest in range, and to his dismay his shirt was splattered with their dinner of canned brown beans. 

Webby burst into laughter with the others, even as Donald realized he’d been tricked and began to lecture Louie. She made to continue with setting up the tent, but wasn’t paying enough attention and caught her thumb with the hammer as she drove the first stake into the ground. She cried out softly in pain, shaking out her injured hand, when she felt someone pluck the hammer from her grasp. 

“Let me, before you lose any fingers,” Scrooge muttered, driving all four stakes into the ground in short order. 

Webby glanced away as he returned the hammer to her, embarrassment simmering under her feathers. “Thank you, Mr. McDuck,” she said quietly, though he had already walked away without another word. 

Swallowing thickly, Webby set to unrolling her sleeping inside the tent. She had collected herself by the time the boys joined her, setting up their own sleeping areas while playfully roughhousing. Dewey kicked her on accident and they all began to scream apologies as she spun around with a predatory gleam in her eye. She tackled them all with a roar, sending them sprawling into a tangle of arms, legs, and sleeping bags. 

They were still laughing by the time Launchpad poked his head into the tent, grinning in response to their jubilation. “Grub’s on, kids! Come get it while it’s hot.”

Each of them hurried to be the first one out, only getting more tangled as they tripped over one another. Eventually they were able to stand and shove their way out, rushing to the crackling fire and their dinner simmering atop it. Due to the nature of their journey that weren’t able to bring along perishables, but Donald and Huey had kept everyone fed and watered with snacks of apples and granola bars throughout the day. Dinner consisted of canned brown beans and vegetables, which Donald had prepared with his usual cooking expertise, and some help from Launchpad. 

Donald served them one at a time, but once he got to the youngest nephew he pointed at him reproachfully with the ladle. “Louie, if you keep everyone up by making fart noises on your phone, there’ll be no Big TV Room for a week.”

Louie gasped in mock affront, but as his uncle’s pointed look continued he grumbled in acquiescence, and Donald happily served him dinner 

They ate quickly, starving after their long journey. Launchpad kept them entertained with an awful, cheesy ghost story about a haunted Mr. Banana Brain doll from the 1980s. It had Donald rolling his eyes, amused by the pilot’s over-the-top acting, while the kids snickered into their meals. 

Scrooge was off to the side, scrutinizing their map in the flickering firelight. He was eating his dinner absently, without looking away from the map. 

Launchpad’s story was winding down, the possessed doll on the brink of being tossed into the ocean, when Scrooge rolled up the map and stood. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for tonight,” he instructed briskly, “get some sleep now, all of you! We’ll be leaving at dawn!”

All but Launchpad groaned collectively, giving his boss a cheery thumbs-up. They cleaned up and added more wood to the fire to keep any wild animals at bay, as exhaustion settled in. 

“Good night, boys,” Donald said warmly, kissing them all on the head as they passed, to their fervent exclamations of disgust. When he got to Webby he mussed her hair with a smile. “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

Webby beamed, feeling warm. “You too, Mr. Duck.” She turned toward where she’d last seen Scrooge, her confidence buoyed by Donald’s attention. “Good night, Mr. McDu _ — _ ”

He disappeared into his tent before she could finish her sentence. 

She felt Donald’s hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see his conflicted expression, inscrutable in the firelight. “Don’t take it personally. He’s just like that,” he advised gently, smiling at her once more before he too left for his tent. 

But Webby knew that what Donald really meant was that Scrooge was like that with  _ him _ —and now, apparently, with her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly desired and appreciated :D


	3. Watch Your Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lesson here is: Donald is always right (except for the many, many times when he's wrong)

Their trek the following day took nearly as long as the last, marching with little pause through sweltering heat, the jungle canopy so thick they could scarcely see the sky save for the occasional snippet of pale blue. 

They eventually came to a break in the treeline, a massive stone pillar, at least two dozen feet tall, carved in the likeness of a coiled serpent. Its large maw stood agape, solitary against the expanse of jungle surrounding it, and nearly entirely shrouded in vines thicker than Webby’s arm. 

Scrooge cackled from the front of the group, pointing excitedly at the pillar. “This is the great stone serpent, Terciopelo, Guardian of the Gate to the White City! This is the marker we’ve been searching for!”

Dewey whispered to his brothers and Webby over his shoulder. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

“I can’t process anything, my brain’s fried from this heat,” Huey replied miserably. 

“Mr. McDuck  _ has  _ been keeping to himself a lot this trip,” Webby said hesitantly. 

Louie shrugged. “I never know what he’s talking about.”

“I heard that!” Scrooge snapped. 

Donald crossed his arms, rolling his eyes so pointedly it was practically audible. “Okay, so we found the snake. Now what?”

“ _ Now _ , Donald, we follow it to the White City!” Scrooge announced grandly, pointing forward with his cane, and heading further into the jungle. Launchpad gave the snake a wide berth, but galumphed into the underbrush after him without hesitation, and Donald sighed before ushering the kids after them. 

The longer they followed Scrooge, the more imposing the jungle became. Trees doubled in size, looming ten feet in diameter like cathedral columns, draped with strangler figs that sprawled across the jungle floor trying to trip unsuspecting ducks. The air, which had already smelled of damp earth and leaves, took on the stench of rotten decay, a miasma that thickened the deeper they ventured. 

They came upon a veritable wall of trees and dense foliage, ponderous and seemingly impenetrable, if not for the dark hole freshly cut into the jungle. Scrooge’s jubilant exclamations reached them from the other side, and they pursued the sound into a vast clearing. 

Just beyond where Scrooge was celebrating loomed six immense stone edifices standing in a ring, dome-like in their tiered structure. They could almost have been confused for the gigantic trees surrounding them, drowning in vines and creeping moss as they were. 

Here the forest floor was paved with stone, though time had weathered away at many of the bricks, leaving holes deep enough to twist ones ankle in. The jungle had done its best to subsume this ancient city, plants sprouting through the stone path as if to upend it entirely, wild animals chittering and crawling unseen in the shadows. 

“Come on now!” Scrooge urged them, already starting down the path,“we’ve got to find the right temple!”

Webby and the boys hurried to keep up with him, reinvigorated by the sight of the ruins. 

“How will we know which one’s the right one?” Huey asked. 

“ _ Well _ , Huey—” Scrooge began smartly. 

Webby made to answer eagerly. “Oh, I read about this! There should be a pedestal in front of each temple with a different symbol; we want the one that corresponds to the moon! The rest lead into buildings  _ full _ of death traps.”

Scrooge nearly lost his footing in a hole in the path. “A-aye, Webbigail, that’s right.”

“What _is_ it with ancient civilizations and death traps?” Donald muttered under his breath. 

“So we’re just looking for a carving of the moon?” Dewey inquired, as they entered the ring of temples, each building overshadowing them imposingly. 

Webby laughed, moving over to the first of the small, stone pedestals. “Oh no, it’ll be the face of the Jaguar Queen, Goddess of the Moon and Devourer of the Unbeliever. She’ll have a crown and stuff.”

“ _ Right _ ,” Louie replied, “because a carving of the moon would just be  _ too _ normal.”

The pedestals were just as entrenched in vines as everything else, as if some force were trying to drag them down into the ground. As the triplets began tugging on the vines of another pedestal ineffectually,  Webby flipped open her Swiss Army knife and began sawing at the plants. 

Scrooge, Donald, and Launchpad used their machetes to hack the vines off other pedestals, and wasn’t long before Launchpad made a sound of mingled surprise and disgust. 

“Hey Webster,” Launchpad called over, “I think I found this queen lady you were talking about. She’s quite the looker!”

Webby joined him at the pedestal and giggled, looking over the fearsome face carved into the stone. Before she could answer him, Scrooge shoved his way between them. 

“Grow up, McQuack,” Scrooge snapped, before inspecting the pillar with a hand to his beak. “But this should be it! The entrance to the Temple of the White City! Come now, lads!”

The nephews bounded up the temple steps, Donald hot on their heels, and Webby even hotter. The only way into the temple was a small, rectangular doorway that looked as though it had been cut straight from the rock, and beyond that, darkness. 

“I cannae see a  _ blasted  _ thing!” Scrooge griped from somewhere on Webby’s right, “who’s got the flashlights?”

“Huey and I do, Mr. McDuck,” Webby responded, first retrieving a smaller  flashlight from her pocket. She clicked it on to reveal a gaping hole in the floor of the temple, black as pitch, and Scrooge on the brink of stepping into it. 

Webby scarcely had time to gasp, “ _ Mr. McDuck _ !” before she darted forward, grabbing a fistful of Scrooge’s coat and dragging him back with as much force as she could muster. Scrooge ended up tripping backward and taking her with him, her flashlight flying out of her hand and skidding into a corner. 

“What the— _ Webbigail _ , I am in  _ no _ mood for games!”

Another pair of flashlights clicked on, illuminating the temple and Donald’s scowl. “How about plummeting into a bottomless pit?” He demanded. 

Launchpad whistled as the hole became visible, and the triplets shared similar reactions of astonishment.

Only because she was so close to Scrooge did Webby see his eyes widen as he took in the sight of the hole. The expression vanished as soon as it appeared, and Scrooge stood, brushing himself off like nothing happened as Webby quietly got to her feet behind him. 

“Nevermind that. We’ve found the entrance to the White City!”

“ _ Entrance _ ?” Donald repeated skeptically, peering down into the pit. 

“The stairs that used to lead down to the city must have collapsed,” Scrooge replied thoughtfully. 

“How deep does it go?” Huey wondered aloud. 

Dewey got down on his hands and knees on the edge of the pit, leaning over and spitting. He and everyone else ignored Donald’s look of disapproval as they waited to hear it hit the ground. After about five seconds they heard a soft  _ plink!  _

“ _ Whoa _ ,” the boys said. 

“Quick question,” Louie interjected, raising his hand, “how’re we getting down there?”

Webby perked up. “Oh, I brought a bunch of extra rope!” She yanked off her backpack and began retrieving the coiled rope. “If I tied it to one of these broken pieces of rock, we could just climb down!” 

She stood back up, rope in hand, only for Scrooge to stop her with a hand on her shoulder. “I’d better take care of that, lass,” he said in a businesslike tone. 

“Oh uh, sure, Mr. McDuck,” Webby replied haltingly, handing over the rope. 

Scrooge had it tied off and draped over the side of the chasm in moments, tugging hard on the rope to test it would hold. 

“Launchpad, the flares,” he ordered, once he was standing over the hole again. 

“No problemo, Mr. McDee!” Launchpad said, fishing them out of his pack. He lit them one at a time, bursting into crimson light, and dropped them down the pit. They illuminated the bottom, littered with pieces of fractured stone, but not as far down as they’d feared. 

Scrooge was naturally the first one down, quickly rappelling to the bottom. Donald intervened before Dewey could grab the rope next, and insisted on lowering each triplet to the ground himself. When their voices rose predictably in protest, Donald put his foot down. “It’s at least a thirty-foot drop! You are not  _ abseiling  _ down that!”

To his credit, Donald got all three of the boys down in just a little over five minutes, but as he was roping down himself, the rock face began to tremble. 

“ _ Scrooge _ ,” Donald pressed, a note of panic in his voice, before the quake ended as quickly as it had begun. 

“These tunnels are centuries old, Donald!” Scrooge said practically, “there’s bound to be some structural instability.”

Donald continued without incident, and Webby followed, rappelling down expertly, and Launchpad was last. 

Once they were all together, they switched their flashlights back on as the flares began to sputter. There were two passages leading off in different directions, and they were, predictably, both gaping voids completely absent of light. 

Scrooge determined that there was an air current emanating from the passage on the left and they headed in, flashlights blazing. Their wandering flashlight beams danced across intricately carved pillars, some of them cracked and splintered in their path, and moss covered walls. The air was damp and cool here, making Webby wish she’d listened to her grandmother and packed a sweater. 

They occasionally passed caves on their way through the passage, most of them only a few dozen feet deep, but others seemed to go on into their own endless, labyrinthine tunnels. Scrooge paid them little heed, apparently trusting his instincts and his map. 

About half an hour into their trek, just as natural light began to illuminate the path ahead, another tremor shook the tunnel. Small stones fell from the ceiling, trembling on the ground for the few seconds before the shaking stopped again. 

Donald had gathered the triplets close when the tremor began, looking up at his uncle now with a resolute expression. “Maybe we should head back, Scrooge.” 

It wasn’t a request. 

But Scrooge rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so  _ overdramatic, _ Donald. These quakes don’t mean anything. And besides, don’t you see that light up ahead?” he indicated further along the passage, where the bright glow was originating. “That’s sunlight reflecting off of the Queen’s Mirrors, which are said to overlook a river of flowing  _ silver _ ! That’s what we came all this way for!”

Louie went starry eyed at the mention of the treasure, but Donald looked unconvinced. 

In the end, it wouldn’t matter. Scrooge took a breath, his expression smoothing out as he made to reason with his nephew, when the ground began to shake again in earnest. Webby nearly fell over as the ground rolled beneath her, the walls of the tunnel shuddering with increasing strength. 

Everyone cried out, Donald most furious of all. “ _ Earthquakes _ ! Those were  _ earthquakes _ , you senile old man!”

Scrooge opened his beak to make a retort, when Webby heard a mighty  _ crack  _ from above them. She looked up to see chunks of the ceiling coming loose, Scrooge almost directly beneath them.

“ _ Scrooge _ !” she yelled, even as she bolted towards him. “Scrooge, look out!” 

The older duck turned on her with an irritated expression. “Webbigail, now is  _ not  _ the _ —oof! _ ”

Webby tackled him mid sentence, propelling them both back several feet through the open mouth of one of the tunnel’s many caves. They hit the ground hard, and the last thing she heard was the crash of the rock face coming down after them, before darkness engulfed her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support, guys! It means the world to me!   
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter :D


	4. Breaking Point

_“Webb_ _y_ ! Webby, darlin’, can you hear me? Are you _alright ?”_

Webby woke piecemeal, blinking to consciousness with a pounding headache. It was not unlike the one she sustained after trying to parachute off the roof of the mansion and ended up tangled in a tree.

She got up on her hands and knees, squinting into the complete darkness that surrounded her. “Mr. McDuck?” she responded hesitantly, pressing her hand against the side of her head, where the pain was sharpest.

Scrooge’s sigh of relief sounded like it had been torn from him. _“_ __L_ ass! _Are you hurt?”

Webby’s hand had come away with something sticky and wet on her fingers, but still she shook her head. “No, I think I just hit my head a little.”

Luckily she hadn’t lost her backpack in the chaos, and she searched blindly for her flashlight until her hand closed around the plastic handle. Webby retrieved it and stood, clicking it on and sweeping the beam of light around the cave.

The first thing she saw was a wall of fallen stone, completely blocking the cave’s twelve foot tall entrance. And at the very bottom was Scrooge, sprawled on his back, and grimacing against the glare of her flashlight.

Webby gasped, rushing over to him. “Mr. McDuck, what happened? Are you okay?”

Her first question was answered quickly through observation _._ It seemed Scrooge hadn’t been as lucky as her in avoiding the rock fall, and his right leg was trapped up to his shin.

Webby crouched beside him, shining her flashlight at the rocks that had Scrooge pinned. “Are you in pain, Mr. McDuck?” she asked, succinct and businesslike. “Can you move your foot at all?”

“I’m _fine_ _!”_ Scrooge said crossly. “I’ve survived worse than a _cave-in_.”

Webby began to carefully prod Scrooge’s leg, and he batted her away. “Stop that! There’s nothing you can do!”

Webby turned to face him with a determined expression. “Mr. McDuck, if I can get your leg free, then we _—”_

“ _Webbigail!"_ Scrooge interrupted sharply. “You’re hurt!”

In the brightness of the flashlight beam the blood on Webby’s face was brought into sharp relief, staining her cheek and hair.

Webby shook her head exasperatedly. “It’s just a little cut, Mr. McDuck. We’ve got to find a way to get your leg free!”

Scrooge’s brow furrowed, his tone hardening. “Our best bet is to wait for the lads to find us. They know where we are, it’s only a matter of them finding a tunnel that connects to ours in this daft maze.”

“Let me go look for them, then!” Webby implored. “With your map, I can lead them back here and we can all get you out!”

“We _can’t_ _,_ Webbigail,” Scrooge retorted sharply, brooking no argument. “Now get comfortable, with Donald leading the search we may be here a while.”

Webby sat back on her heels, quiet for a long moment. Scrooge closed his eyes, though his brow remained knotted, most likely in pain.

“You mean _I_ can’t,” Webby said softly.

Scrooge opened one eye. “What’s that?”

Webby met his gaze, her own expression darkening. “You don’t think I can help.”

“Now, I never said _—”_

“It’s _all_ you say!” Webby cut him off, throwing her arms out at her sides, and she certainly had Scrooge’s full attention now. In that moment she felt all the pent up frustration, doubt, and self righteous anger bubble to the surface like a shaken can of Pep, and she stood up, unable to contain herself anymore.

“You _never_ let me do _anything,_ Scrooge! Granny trained me; you _know_ I can help you! But even before the nephews came, all you did was ignore me! Is it-It it because I’m a _girl_? Or...or...” Webby had begun pacing, every line of her body screaming her irritation, before a deeper fear came upon her like a tidal wave, and she stood stock still in its wake.

“Did I...did I do something _wrong_ _?”_ she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling shaky and sick as she laid her insecurities bare. “Something to make you hate me?”

The silence that fell upon the cave was piercing in the wake of Webby’s outburst, becoming more deafening by the second.

She rubbed furiously at her eyes, frustrated by the tears that gathered there, and kept her back to Scrooge as the moment stretched on. It grew tenser by the second, unbearable in the way the cave itself seemed to be holding its breath, before Scrooge finally broke the silence.

“Webby, lass, I don’t….I don’t hate you.” His voice was stilted, in a way Webby had never heard it, and she glanced over her shoulder.

Scrooge’s face was pained in a way she didn’t think had anything to do with his pinned leg. He’d propped himself up on his elbows, and was looking at her, _really_ looking at her, for maybe the first time.

“You always act like I don’t know what I’m doing,” Webby said softly, rubbing her arm. “I’ve read all about your adventures, I’ve studied and trained, but you don’t...you don’t _see_ me.”

“Of course I _see_ you,” Scrooge tried, “I’m not-I’m not _trying_ to _—_ ” He huffed a sigh. “I don’t _mean_ to ignore you.”

Webby shook her head, turning to face him more fully. “But you _do_ _!_ Since I came to live with my Granny, you’ve done your best to stay away from me! I just don’t understand _why_.”

Scrooge tore his gaze away, his brow furrowed but expression otherwise unreadable. Webby didn’t think he would answer her, and cast the beam of her flashlight away, when his voice rose quietly from the darkness.

“You….you remind me of someone.”

It felt like a stone had fallen to the pit of Webby’s stomach as she took in Scrooge’s weary expression. “You mean Della?” she said, clarifying for both their sakes.

His eyes widened when he looked back up at her, as if he didn’t know that in her desperation to know him better, she had learned everything about him that she could. But Scrooge’s incredulity gave way to subdued amusement, and he chuckled. “You’re so like her, sometimes. You have the same energy, the same spirit for adventure.”

Webby returned hesitantly to his side, clutching the flashlight tightly in her lap. “I’m not Della,” she told him.

Scrooge shook his head. “No, no, I know that. It’s just, when you come to be my age, it’s difficult not to see ghosts.” His smile was weak, and quickly fell when he saw Webby’s unchanged expression, still waiting for an answer.

“I didn’t….I didn’t want to ignore you,” Scrooge admitted haltingly. “It was just _easier._ And I know that’s no excuse, it wasn’t fair to you. And as for the adventures,” he faltered, before gently laying his hand over hers. “It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, Webby. I just didn’t want to lose another niece. I never meant to make you feel—”

Webby wrapped her arms around Scrooge, startled him with her embrace. With her face pressed against his chest, her sniffles were muffled, and Scrooge smiled. He smoothed her hair, and gently squeezed her back with his free arm.

“There now, no more tears,” he instructed gently as she pulled away. He cleared his throat and said matter-of-factly, “Now then, we’ve dawdled long enough. I’ll need you to find something to create leverage, because this stone’s got my foot in a tighter hold than a bear trap, and we’re never going to find the others sitting here on our tail feathers.” Webby’s face began to shine, her smile her so wide it hurt Scrooge’s cheeks to look at.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Well, get moving!”

“Yes, Uncle Scrooge!” Webby exclaimed, her serious salute ruined by her grin. She dashed off to scour the cave, her flashlight beam moving to and fro, and despite the darkness pressing down on them, Webby felt lighter than air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your support, guys! I hope you liked this chapter :D  
> I may write an epilogue that would probably be all fluff, if you guys are down 
> 
> ~ You know this tune, leave a comment and I'll be over the moon! ~


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise an epilogue, didn't I?   
> This is just a small blurb to tie up loose ends, mostly fluff, but I hope you enjoy!

Webby knocked carefully on the heavy wooden doors she’d never been allowed through before, and only ever entered once when first exploring the ventilation system.

She heard what she thought sounded like muffled swearing from the other side, before the doors opened to reveal the broad shouldered form of her grandmother. 

“Ah can open my own  _ door _ , Beakley!” Scrooge’s sharp lilt reached Webby from deeper in the room. 

“Mr. McDuck will see you now, dear,” Beakley informed her granddaughter, unruffled as ever despite her employer’s acerbic barb. She looked back over her shoulder briefly before clearing the doorway entirely. “Don’t let me catch you out of bed, sir. Your leg needs time to heal.”

Webby hesitantly entered the bedroom to the sound of Scrooge’s grumbling, noting how little the room had changed since she last visited. There was an overflowing bookshelf against one wall, amid the odd artifact and ancient bric-a-brac. Though the tall windows she caught a glimpse of the Money Bin, far beneath Killmotor Hill. The four-poster bed was occupied by Scrooge, who had his bandaged ankle propped up on a pillow and didn’t look too happy about it. 

Scrooge’s scowl vanished almost the moment she cleared the threshold, replaced with a warm smile that still sent her reeling. Webby last saw him on the plane back home, had in fact slept pressed close against his side as Donald lectured him for almost the entire duration of the flight. But her grandmother had confined him to bed since the moment they arrived the day before and she hadn’t seen him since. If she was being honest with herself, a part of her had worried that it would be as if their conversation in the cave had never happened and he’d return to treating her like she wasn’t there. 

But with his smile, the ice cold knot of fear in her stomach eased, and she shyly returned it. 

“How’s your head, Webby?” Scrooge asked her, concern is his eyes as they alighted on the bandage just beneath her hairline. 

She patted her temple self consciously. “Oh, I’m okay, Mr. McDuck. It stopped bleeding a while ago, Granny was just a little worried.”

Scrooge’s smile dimmed at the use of his last name. “Aye, she can be a right terror, can’t she? I mean, she’s got me under house arrest for a little  _ sprain _ !” The last he yelled pointedly at the closed doors, and Webby hid a giggle behind her hand. 

“I don’t think she can hear you,” she said, and decided not to mention that Scrooge’s injury was a little more serious than a sprain. 

“Bah,” Scrooge scoffed, shifting against his pillows, “Beakley’s never far.”

Silence fell between them, but it was not like the silence Webby had known for so much of her life. This one was awkward and strange, filling her mind with anxious, rushing thoughts that made her face feel warm. Maybe she  _ shouldn’t  _ have said anything in the cave. She didn’t know how to deal with the change in their relationship, and apparently neither did Scrooge. 

Did he regret calling her his niece? Did he not want to be her uncle? Was that why he’d asked for her? 

The quiet couldn’t have even lasted a minute, but Webby felt fit to burst with anxious anticipation. 

When she could no longer stand it she blurted, “Do you—” 

At the same time, Scrooge started to say, “Webbigail, I—”

They both stopped, Webby with a nervous chuckle as she rubbed her arm, and Scrooge’s brow drawing down in concern. 

“Webbigail, lass,” he began again, “I dinnae want things going back to the way they were. I’ve missed so much of my family’s life, even those who were right under my beak, and that was...that was wrong of me. I don’t plan on letting that happen again.”

Scrooge had looked away from Webby as he spoke, and as such didn’t see the way her eyes filled with incredulous, happy tears.

“I’m...I’m a part of your family?” 

Granny was family, the boys were family, she was even fairly confident that Donald was too. But  _ Scrooge _ ? Until recently, Webby hadn’t dared to hope. Dreamt of it, of course. She’d dreamt of the trust and the comradely smiles he shared with the triplets, the open and easy acknowledgement of family. And now he was offering to let  _ her _ have that. 

“Well, yes,” Scrooge started to say, until he glanced back up at her face. He balked almost immediately, confusing the reason for her tears. “Or, I mean, if you’d rather not—”

Webby didn’t give him time to finish, launching herself at Scrooge and wrapping him up in the tightest hug he’d ever received. Relief flooded him even as he distantly noticed how she kept her boundless energy in check and was careful not to jostle his injured leg, and he smiled as he gently returned the embrace. 

“Now, no more of this ‘Mr. McDuck’ nonsense,” Scrooge said in a businesslike manner, “Is that clear, Webbigail?”

She giggled again, but made no attempt to hide it. “Yes, Uncle Scrooge.”

“Good,” he sniffed cooly, but was startled when instead of releasing him completely she made herself comfortable against his side. “Ah, Webbigail, what might the lads be up to?”

Webby rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. “They’re all watching TV. They said they’re still too tired from the trip.”

Well that was certainly possible, if convenient. A little  _ too _ convenient, if you asked him. 

“Beakley put you up to this, didn’t she,” Scrooge said with a grimace, a statement rather than a question. 

Webby shrugged with a guilty smile. “Granny would only let me in to see you if I promised to keep you off your feet.”

“I can’t believe I’m being held prisoner in my own home by my own  _ housekeeper _ ,” Scrooge harrumphed, slumping petulantly against his pillows. But he knew better than to try to escape now; Beakley was sure to be extra vigilant. 

He looked back at Webby, who seemed content in looking around his room. 

“Have you ever heard about how I became the Master of the Mississippi?” he asked. 

Webby nodded eagerly. “Oh yeah, I’ve read all about it! But, uh,” she glanced up at him hopefully, “I’ve...I’ve never heard you tell it.”

Scrooge grinned, gently squeezing her shoulder. “Well, you’re certainly in for a treat then, lass, because among my many skills, I am renowned for my storytelling prowess!

“Now, it was well into the night when I arrived in Louisville, Kentucky, just shy of my thirteenth birthday. The streets were a havoc—”

“Skip ahead to your Uncle Pothole!”

“Who’s telling the story here?”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, drop me a line! Comments are always appreciated :D


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